What's in a Name
by iNiGmA
Summary: Ron Weasley has been in love with Hermione Granger for longer than he can remember. They've been through it all together... friendship, adventure, danger. But love? That seems to be the hardest thing to admit. And when they do, what will it take? - Lost moment from Trading Places


_**A/N: **This one-shot is a bit of a lost moment from my story Trading Places. It's meant to be a stand-alone moment for Ron and Hermione, but it does have some references to TP, and some spoilers. If you're interested in that story (it's an adventure/drama/romance/mystery) and don't want spoilers, __stop reading now and read that first! Otherwise, enjoy this little moment! Ron and Hermione don't get enough of them! :)_

_**Disclaimer: **__Everything Harry Potter belongs to our queen, JK Rowling!_

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**What's in a Name**

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Hermione.

That's what he'd called her, ever since that first Halloween. Before that, he'd called her '_annoying'_ or a '_know-it-all_' or something else entirely foul that filled him with shame now, loath as he was to admit it. But he hadn't called her any of those things since – and that, at least, was something.

But now… now he wanted to call her something else entirely.

He sat by the lake, watching as the indigo sunset seeped softly across the water; the scene painfully reminiscent of one long ago. She'd been brave, then. She'd fought hard. And he – he had fought for her; had known then, already, that he loved her. Had known it since their second year, probably, as she lay still as death in the hospital wing, her hand cold beneath his touch.

He hadn't understood it then, but hell… If he looked in the Mirror of Erised now, he knew he'd no longer see himself standing alone. What were trophies and awards, really, in place of Hermione by his side?

But that was the question, wasn't it? Getting her by his side – how the hell did one do it? How did one win over Hermione Granger?

She hadn't taken any of the hints he'd thrown out. He had as good as said it, back then in the dungeon, when You-Know-Who had taken them_. "I could kiss you."_ He'd meant it. And what had it been that she had said?

"_How about we get out of here alive first before we celebrate?"_

Yes, well, Hermione was nothing if not practical. And he could hardly fault her for making their lives her first priority. But she had not mentioned it since. Perhaps she hadn't taken him seriously; had assumed his words were spoken out of desperation – a last moment confession. Or perhaps she _had_, and she didn't feel the same… and that was worse.

She probably didn't love him; probably thought he was a prat; probably preferred someone else… Harry often came to mind. Yes, he always felt inadequate when he contemplated himself alongside Harry. The was the reason, after all, why he'd been so quick to abandon his best friend, during the Triwizard Tournament. Jealousy, and feeling inadequate, and that ever-present gnawing feeling that Hermione liked him better. _Loved him better._

Well he had learned from his bloody mistakes, hadn't he?

Hermione's presence beside him had grown so familiar, so comforting, over the past seven years, that he could hardly imagine his life without her. Didn't want to, in fact. And he had reckoned, lately, she must have felt it too. They had seemed closer than ever, after everything.

It still brought him up short, made him shudder with cold fear, when he flashed back to how close he had come to losing her. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he could still see her lying broken across the shattered stones of the courtyard; could still see how dark, _how thick_, her blood had looked as it pooled beneath her, breaking through the futile efforts of his _Episkey_ like a river breaking a dam.

You could not put a band-aid on a war. He had known it then.

But they had survived.

And despite the cost of it all, they had found ways to heal. Even Harry could smile these days; his eyes lifting along with the corners of his mouth.

And Hermione… he was sure, _sure_ that it could not live only in his heart, this feeling.

He flashed back to long study sessions in the library, where their elbows had casually touched, whenever Harry wasn't looking. Walks around the lake while Harry was preoccupied in the Owlery, or wherever he was prone to hiding these days. Hermione had even consented to come to the Quidditch pitch with him and try out his Cleansweep over the Easter holidays.

He smiled as he remembered it, his cheeks flushing as red as his hair.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Ron?" Hermione had said, following him out onto the pitch as the fresh scent of grass accosted them. It had rained that morning, and the pitch was positively alive with the essence of spring. She had breathed it in, inhaling deeply, a smile gracing her features despite her skepticism.

He grinned. "Absolutely. You need a break from studying! C'mon, it'll be excellent."

"Well, all right… but, Ron, we _really_ _do_ need to study for our N.E.W.T.s."

"I know, and we will, I promise." He meant it, too.

She hesitantly approached the broom he was holding out, looking it over apprehensively as it caught the late afternoon sun. The wood glinted warmly in the light.

"Just get on," he told her, holding the broomstick steady.

"But, Ron, the last time I was on a broomstick I wasn't even conscious to remember it."

"Hermione," he said in exasperation, "you're good at everything except this. Don't you want to master this too?" He grinned. "If you can get out of a bloody dungeon, you can fly a broomstick."

"Fine," she said, grabbing hold of the broom and sliding one leg over it. "_Fine._ But I'll need my cheering squad, so get on, would you?"

"Sure thing." Still grinning, he slid on the broomstick behind her, sliding his hands around her waist. He pushed up off the ground, and they shot up into a clear blue sky, Hermione's bushy hair momentarily obscuring his vision. When it was gone, they were soaring amongst the clouds. Hermione drew in a sharp gasp that was nearly lost in the rushing wind.

They had drifted lazily around the pitch, Ron guiding the broomstick gently through the billowing wind. Hermione had let him, taking little care to try and steer herself. Instead she'd leaned back, resting her head against him, her hair trailing wildly in the breeze.

Once, as he swerved to avoid a bright blue Jobberknoll that had been coasting on the warm updrafts above the pitch, he even heard her laugh. It had made him smile, realizing that the tiny blue bird would carry a piece of Hermione with it forever – until the very end of its life, to share with the entirely of its world.

"This is nice!" she had called, her voice tumbling into the wind almost before it reached his ears. But he heard her anyway, heard the way her words were wrapped in giddiness, and realized she was finally discovering a world he had always known. The world that was too huge, too joyful, to be contained by two feet anchored to the ground.

"That was lovely," she said again, when they landed. She had stumbled slightly as she slid off the broom, letting out an amused laugh before settling her brown eyes on him and smiling brightly, her hair an untamable mess about her head. "You were right, Ron, I think I really needed that. Thank you."

"Told you." He grinned, reaching out a hand to steady her. She took it. "It was excellent, wasn't it? Do you want to do it again sometime?"

"Maybe," she said noncommittally, slipping her fingers out of his as she regained her balance. His hand felt empty, lacking, without the shape of her in it. "We'll see. I suppose we should get back to studying now, haven't we? Come on, let's head to the library."

She had walked across the pitch, running her fingers halfheartedly through her hair, and he had followed. It hadn't been long before Hermione had grown silent in the dusty stacks, her eyes lost in the page of a book, a small smile gracing her features.

Nothing could make Hermione Granger smile like a book, after all. He was competing with a thousand worlds.

"Ronald!"

Her voice shattered his reveries, the memories falling to pieces like glass.

Shockingly, she was stalking toward him across the lawn, her hair crinkling with magical energy. He flinched.

"Yes?"

"_That's it!"_ she said, advancing on him. "What do I have to do? I even rode your bloody deathtrap of a broomstick. What else can I possibly do to show you...?"

"Er," he said, drawing back slightly. She was really very imposing. "Show me wha–"

But before he could finish, she had closed the distance between them and planted her lips on his.

"Ermynee–" he mumbled against her mouth, shocked.

"Be quiet, Ron," she said, drawing back and looking at him intently. "I'm tired of waiting around for you to figure it out. Do you like me, _or don't you?_"

He grinned, at her assertiveness; at her partially concealed anxious look; _at her_.

_Merlin's freaking saggy bollocks, he was an idiot…_

"I _really_ bloody do."

"Oh," she said, her whole frame lifting with relief. She seemed momentarily lost for words, and she climbed to her feet, keeping her eyes on him. "Good."

She stood there, suddenly hesitant, no longer the girl who had jumped forth to face three of You-Know-Who's strongest with wild abandon and lived to tell the tale. No longer the girl who had charged across the shore of the lake to take what she wanted, in the very spot where she had nearly lost it all.

He stood, facing her, and reached out a hand to trace it against her cheek. She smiled.

"I can't remember a time when I didn't," he said softly. "Love you."

Her eyes opened wide.

"Oh," she whispered. She drew a hand to her mouth.

He stepped closer. Slowly, she lowered her hand.

And then his lips were on hers again, and her arms were pulling him closer, and his hands were in her hair; and he realized, as he found the promise of home within the softness of her lips, that he had a new name for her now.

_Girlfriend._

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_**A/N: **Thanks so much for reading! Please do leave a note if you can _–_I'd really love to hear what you guys think! And again, if this has piqued your interest at all, do check out **Trading Places**, it's my proudest accomplishment!_

_Rina_


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